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‘Obviously not, but I’m learning fast.’ Ginny got up. ‘I think I’ll have a hot bath.’
In the hall, she encountered the housekeeper. ‘I won’t want dinner, Mrs Pel. I’m planning an early night.’
Closing my eyes. Blotting out this awful day...
‘I’m not surprised,’ Mrs Pel said with faint asperity. ‘You look washed out. But you’re not going to bed hungry,’ she added firmly. ‘I’ll bring you something on a tray.’
The ‘something’ turned out to be a steaming bowl of Scotch broth, accompanied by crusty bread, a hunk of cheese and an apple, and this, allied with the hot-water bottle Ginny had discovered in her bed, made her throat tighten with the threat of tears.
But I can’t cry, she thought. Because if I start, I may never stop, and I need to be strong.
‘You’re spoiling me, Mrs Pel,’ she said with an attempt at lightness.
‘It doesn’t happen so often.’ The older woman set the tray across Ginny’s lap. ‘Besides, it may be my last chance to do so. Mrs Charlton wants me gone by the end of the week.’
‘The end of the week,’ Ginny repeated numbly. ‘But that isn’t even proper notice.’
‘Oh, hush now,’ Mrs Pel said robustly. ‘She’s been trying to get rid of me for long enough, as well you know. And I’ve no wish to stay on here without the master, not with my beautiful cottage waiting for me.’
She paused. ‘And you should do the same, my dear. Spread your wings and fly.’
She gave a brisk nod and left Ginny to her supper. And to her thoughts—which, although confused and unhappy, were still not proof against the delicious soup, thick with chunks of lamb, vegetables and pearl barley, and spreading its beguiling warmth through every inch of her. She found she was finishing every last drop and scraping the bowl.
She finished off the bread with the cheese, then, leaning back against her pillows, began to eat the apple, juicy and slightly tart, just as she’d always liked them. Like the ones on the tree in Aunt Joy’s garden at the big comfortable house in Fulham...
She hadn’t thought about that for years, and but for Andre Duchard’s hateful insinuations, she wouldn’t be remembering any of it now. Yet some of their exchange had set alarm bells ringing. And taken her unwillingly back to the time when she was eleven years old and her life had changed for ever.
Taking her back to Lorimer Street. A terraced house like all its neighbours with a small paved area in front and a yard at the back.
A house her mother had always hated, although Ginny could recall her father explaining quietly and patiently that on his present salary as a primary school teacher, it was all they could afford. That when he got promotion, they could, perhaps, think again.
Instead he’d become ill, and while Ginny had been too young to understand what leukaemia was, some instinct had told her that it was taking her gentle, humorous father away from her, all too quickly and with a terrible finality.
A trained beautician, Rosina had been working part-time at a local salon but switched to full-time when she became a widow. The wages, bolstered by tips from a wealthy clientele, weren’t generous, but the family survived, with the help of neighbours in term time and Aunt Joy in the school holidays.
She could remember taking Cilla to the salon each day after school, keeping her quiet in the cramped staffroom with crayons and colouring books until it was time to go home.
‘She’s your little sister,’ her mother had told her. ‘It’s your job to look after her.’ And she’d obeyed.
Aunt Joy and her husband, who owned a successful garage chain, were childless, but they were always genuinely delighted to see Rosina and her daughters, although Ginny had noticed that her mother was often quiet—almost brooding—on their return to Lorimer Street, as if she was making comparisons between their differing lifestyles, and finding them odious.
Just as she did when the clients at the salon talked about their villas on the Mediterranean and showed off their new jewellery and designer dresses.
Then one day Rosina was suddenly the one with carrier bags full of clothes from Oxford Street and Knightsbridge.
‘I’ve had a surprise,’ she told them airily. ‘A little windfall.’
Not so little, thought Ginny. Several thousand pounds from the Lottery. Enough to pay for a cruise in the sun and more while she and Cilla stayed with Aunt Joy.
They’d known exactly when their mother was returning by the days crossed off from the kitchen calendar. Ginny watched them mount up, longing to go back to Lorimer Street and their usual life.
But when Rosina returned, it was not to Lorimer Street. Instead she’d taken a short-term rental on an attractive flat in a modern block. And after Aunt Joy had delivered them there, they’d heard the sounds of her quarrelling with their mother and then the distant slamming of a door.
